


Never Asked for Miracles

by heartofthesunrise



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music Store, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, M/M, Meet-Cute, power pop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-30 01:37:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13939770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofthesunrise/pseuds/heartofthesunrise
Summary: 15. Bob/Ray - Some kind of alternate music careers AU? They both work in a music store? Or Bob does, and Ray does sessions work/comes in to look at guitars? Or music teacher/band director at a high school? They're both in marching band? Some mad combination of the above?Written for no_tags Spring 2018





	Never Asked for Miracles

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Records' "Starry Eyes" which is also mentioned a couple times in the fic. Sorry I made them power pop nerds - I am what I am. (A power pop nerd.)

It’s not like Bob to get invested in a customer. Mostly they all look the same, sound the same, have the same mediocre-to-average taste in music. Mostly none of them are very interested in talking to him past some praise or critique on whichever band he’s got plastered on his t-shirt on a given day. 

The thing with this guy is, he can really  _ play.  _ Which is rare.

Yeah you’ve got your Clapton wannabes and your Eddie Van Halen tapping addicts who can pass muster, you’ve got your regulars who hammer away at the Stairway to Heaven solo for long enough that Bob’s forced to intervene, but…

“Damn,” Bob says, ringing up a set of flatwound strings for him one mild afternoon. “You’ve gotta take that Ric home with you one of these days.”

The guy grins, and Christ, he’s gorgeous as well. Smile like a goddamn sunbeam, big brown eyes, wild curls bouncing as he shakes his head.

“I’m a Les Paul man,” he says, even though he’s been in here twice a week to jam out on their sole vintage Rickenbacker 330 for the past month. “I’ve just been having this, like, affair with jangle-pop now that the sun’s out, y’know? Don’t tell anyone, I’ll lose all my cred.”

He laughs, which makes Bob laugh just because you can’t not want to smile for this guy.

“Les Paul man… you got a name?” Bob asks. Because he’s, well, he’s only human.

“Ray,” says the guy, and he sticks his hand out, big and warm and rough with callouses.

Bob points to his name tag. “Bob,” he says, trying for joking, probably looking like an idiot. Typical.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Ray says. “If I like, I don’t know, win the lottery or something, I’ll definitely come back for the Rickenbacker.” He laughs again. His light, clear voice feels the way the sun does through a window, all amplified and warm.

“Well,” Bob says. “I don’t think anybody’s gonna be buying it any time soon. Always glad to have you come in and jam.” He pauses, because it’s gauche to comment on somebody’s casual jamming, really. “You play the hell outta that thing.”

Ray smiles again, smaller this time, but no less warm.

“Alright, then.”

The bell above the door jangles as Ray leaves, and Bob puts his face into his hands and groans.

The next time Ray comes in it’s almost a week later, and he’s clearly stopping in from work, with an impossibly heavy looking messenger bag slung over his shoulder and his hair pulled loosely back. He says hello to Bob and goes to set up the Ric, trying out a couple of the pedals they have on the floor before he settles on something acerbically bright.

For a while Ray’s playing this riff Bob remembers from somewhere - some pop compilation he had as a teenager, when he needed something to keep him awake driving between gigs. He googles what he can remember of the lyrics on his phone. Not to talk to Ray about, he tells himself, because like, he’s not  _ that  _ desperate, just because he’d like to know.

Of course, when Ray’s packing up, Bob finds himself coming over and mentioning the compilation, trying for casual and missing the mark completely.

“That Records song is great,” he says, despite the fact that Ray’d gone on a few longer tangents since then - noodling around on some more obscure Byrds tracks, picking out a surprising Plimsouls deep cut that had frankly astonished Bob. “D’you ever listen to, like, the Three O’Clock?”

Ray shakes his head, smiling mildly. “Never heard of ‘em. Where should I start?”

Bob is mentally high fiving himself and probably pausing for way too long for the conversation to have any kind of natural flow. Because he’s terrible at flirting, if that’s even what Ray’s doing, if that’s even what Ray’s  _ interested  _ in doing.

“Oh, uh… They’re a little hard to come across these days, I’ll make you a mix. Stop in sometime later this week, I think there’s some shit you’ll really like.”

“Yeah?”

Bob nods. “Sure, man. Gotta know all the good Paisley Underground bands, right?”

Ray gives him a pinched little smile, like he’s trying not to grin. It’s stupid how far gone Bob is on him, even for Bob, and Bob’s done some incredibly stupid shit in his life.

Well. No use in stopping now, he guesses.

He burns a disc with a handful of Three O’Clock songs on it, and a little bit of Game Theory on the back half for good measure, stuff he thinks Ray might like playing. Stuff with good riffs he could hear Ray improvising on. He spends the entire evening thinking about Ray, which is embarrassing. He goes to practice with his own band, a case of beer project that’s going nowhere, and finds himself suggesting that Records song Ray’d been playing earlier. He makes a little note card to stick in with the CD with all the titles of the songs in his small, cramped handwriting. He feels like he’s about sixteen years old.

Ray doesn’t manage to come in for a few days, and when he finally makes it through the front door, the bell announcing him like some kind of musical cupid, Bob is simultaneously relieved and about four thousand times more nervous than he’d been when he’d suggested he make Ray a mix CD.

“Ray!” he says, overexcited, obvious. He’s a disaster. “Hello!”

“Hey, man,” Ray says. He’s got that straight-from-work look on again, which makes him look vaguely disheveled and ruthlessly competent and, tragically, very sexy. Bob swallows.

“I made you - “ Bob digs the CD out from where he’d stashed it under the counter. It suddenly seems too much, especially for a near stranger. It’s not like he’d decoupaged together any sentimental cover art, but it’s still… It’s overkill, for sure.

“This whole LA scene’s worth exploring, if you end up liking these guys,” he says lamely. Ray’s pulled out the tracklist and is reading through it with interest.

“Yeah, for sure,” Ray says. He tucks the notecard carefully back into the jewel case. “You know a lot about this stuff?”

Bob shrugs. “I guess. I mean, I’m more of a like… Prog rock guy, I guess, but I like to think I know a little about everything, y’know?” He does a noncommittal shake of his head, which hopefully looks cool and not idiotic. “Working here, it’s good to be like… To listen broadly, I guess.”

Ray nods. He deliberately slips the CD into his messenger bag.

“Did you want me to grab the Rickenbacker for you?” Bob asks. His palms are sweaty. This is the worst idea he’s ever had.

“Actually,” Ray says slowly. “If you wanted, I was going to offer to maybe… Pick you up when your shift is over, and we could listen to this together. I could…” He pauses. Gives Bob one of those liquid sunshine smiles that sends him reeling. “Like, I could make you dinner. You could tell me all about the LA power pop scene. Y’know. Equal exchange.”

Which definitely sounds like a date, or like Ray’s trying to bribe him into doing some kind of research legwork for him. Either way, Bob’s up for it. Bob would probably be up for filing Ray’s taxes for him, just to get another hit of that big smile.

“I’m off at seven,” Bob says. He can feel his stupid pale face pinking up.

“Cool,” Ray says. He reaches across the counter with one big hand and cups it around Bob’s elbow for a moment, and smiles again, and heads out the door. Bob sags against the counter. He’s not smooth enough for this.

The bell above the door jangles again and he tries to straighten himself out for whoever’s come in.

It’s Ray, again, leaning through the open doorway.

“Just to be clear,” he says, and he’s smiling, but in a way that might be considered slightly nervous. “This is like, a date, so.”

Bob puts his face directly in his hands, then disentangles one enough to give Ray a thumbs up.

“That’s great, Ray. I’m great at dates.”

“Good,” Ray says. “I’ll see you at seven.”

This time, when Ray leaves, Bob lets himself fully sink onto the floor.

He makes a mental note to dig that pop compilation back out of the glovebox of his car. Maybe he’s gonna be able to put it to use, after all.


End file.
